


Broke the Looking Glass

by voodoochild



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Kink, Mirror Universe, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-03
Updated: 2010-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 21:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cal's found himself a bit beyond the mirror, with a Gillian who's definitely not the one he left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broke the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bessemerprocess, for the prompt "Cal/Gillian, mirror universe, restraints". No major spoilers, but it was written before "Sweet Sixteen" aired, and doesn't take that episode into account. Title from Stevie Wonder's "Superstition".

"Let's try this again. Who are you?"

He can't see a thing. They must have put him in the interrogation enclosure, blacked out all the walls; he's done it enough to suspects to know his surroundings, though. If they - and Cal has no idea who "they" are, but he's betting they don't have a clue about half the shit he's done in his life - think that cracking him over the head, dragging him in here, blacking out the walls, and watching him through a monitor while they catalogue his microexpressions is gonna work, they've got a thing or two coming.

Stupid wankers. Have they even _read_ his dossier? Bosnia, Ireland, Libya - what were they, cakewalks?

He does nothing, simply smiles irritatingly up at the nearest camera (upper left corner opposite the chair he's tied to), and the voice repeats again "Who are you?"

Except this time, he recognizes it. Last heard it giggling over the phone to an old college friend, feet up on her desk as she waved goodnight at him, but there's no mistaking it.

Gillian.

"Foster? Is that you? What're you playing at?"

Silence, then: "Answer my question. Who are you?"

"Oi, Foster, come on. This is ridiculous."

"Answer me."

God, how can she stay so fucking calm? He wishes he'd known her in Bosnia, could've thrown some of the Serb bastards in with her and saved his blood pressure. She's always been good at the cool, rational approach - ice to his fire, Loker calls it - but she doesn't usually use it on him. And what's with wanting to know his name?

"Cal Lightman, of course. Is that what you want to hear? It's all you're going to get. You know I don't call myself 'Doctor', and if I tell you my middle name, I'll ruin the bet you and Loker have over who gets it out of me first."

The intercom goes silent - she's switched it off - and after a good ten minutes, the door opens. It's a good thing he's tied to his chair, because if he weren't, he'd have fallen off. Bleeding fuck, Gillian in six-inch stripper pumps and, if he's got his designers right, a Cavalli tuxedo-style suit, hair pulled back in - wait, how did she grow it so fast? She sits on the table in front of him, and fuck, if she breathes wrong she's going to fall out of that suit. When the hell did _Foster_ go for the high-class hooker look?

"It my birthday or something?" he asks, trying to slump in the chair, only half to hide the hard-on he's got. "We get a new case that requires you to go hooker glam? You're pulling it off, by the way."

Her face gives nothing away, which surprises him. For the entire six years he's known her, she's been an open book; microexpressions, body language, tone of voice, she's never been able to hide any of it from him, and what's more, he doesn't think she ever would. He treasures that, really, the way she's the one person in the world who isn't afraid to let him see her. He'll do anything to repay that. She once said that the thing she liked most about him was his loyalty - he was a borderline-sociopathic narcissist with abandonment issues and severe mood swings, but he was *her* borderline-sociopathic narcissist with abandonment issues and severe mood swings.

But there's nothing of his Gillian in the woman sitting before him. Her thin-set mouth could be anger, self-hushing, or disdain. The narrowed eyes could be curiosity or disbelief. Flared nostrils could be shock or simply a cold. She's just a blank slate, too many possibilities on a canvas he once thought he'd be able to read blindfolded.

"You can't be Cal Lightman," she says, her voice shaking the barest bit. "Tell me who you are and why you look like him, and I'll reconsider letting Reynolds over there use you as a punching bag."

And yes, there's Reynolds, with a shaved head and a clear sadistic amusement on his face. The Ben Reynolds he knows keeps that aspect of himself and his past under lock and key. Cal isn't sure what's going on anymore, but it's clearly not a game. Things are starting to appear _wrong_, like he's tried to add five and five together and come up with twelve.

"I don't know what to tell you, love," he says, watching the way Gillian flinches at the endearment. "I'm Cal Lightman, we've known each other for six years. We met on the Martin case, you'd just married Alec. I chased you down three blocks because you were one of the first people to catch me in a lie who I didn't marry or was related to. I got drunk at your sister's wedding three years ago and the maid of honor threw a scotch in my face. You read romance novels and watch Lifetime movies because you're a sucker for happy endings, but you also wouldn't speak to me for a week after I made you see _The Blair Witch Project_. You and Emily put up with how I was after Zoe left, and you dumped a bucket of water over my head that time I didn't shower for a week. You want me to go on?"

An expression finally cracks through and it hits Cal like that bucket of water - it's rage. It's followed by a slap to the face (okay, that one hurt) that he can't block because he's still tied to the chair, and Gillian slamming the intercom button with her fist.

"Everyone out! Reynolds, lock the door on your way."

She glares at him as the door closes and the lock buzzes shut, and he cocks his head in confusion. "Hit a nerve there?"

"Cal Lightman died last year. Shot in the head. So yeah, you'd better believe you hit a nerve."

How hard did they crack him over the head? He's never hallucinated before (not without an arseload of drugs; there's a reason he remembers very little of New Guinea he hadn't specifically documented), and he's fairly sure he's not dreaming. So, what then, a full-on auditory and visual hallucination? He hasn't had any inciting trauma in his life - unless dinner with Zoe's new fiance the monkey-keeper (sorry, _zoologist_) counted, and if that was the case, why didn't it set in after Afghanistan?

"Dunno what to tell you, love," he says, stretching out his hands as much as he's able in the restraints. "Not dead. Not close to it. You're welcome to check."

His Gillian would turn pink, break eye contact, deflect the tension. They'll flirt and tease, but it's never anything more; they've known ever since he chased her down J Street that they could easily have had an affair. Zoe knew it. Alec knew it. Even Emily knew it (and rooted for it, the traitor). They were both too committed to making their marriages work to chance it, even after his divorce, her divorce, Matheson and the hostage situation, Terry and the Mafia, Afghanistan, and Vegas.

This Gillian, the one in fuck-me shoes and a poker face to beat his own? She just grins. Tiny, quicksilver smile.

"Calling my bluff, Cal? I should be ordering so many DNA tests you resemble a pincushion."

He shrugs. "Go ahead."

She stares at him a moment, then thumbs open the zip on her trousers and shimmies them off her hips. They drop to the floor - along with his jaw - and she steps out of them, leaving her in a scrap of lace others might optimistically call knickers. She slides onto his lap, settles right snug against his dick, and threads her fingers through his hair, yanking it back. He almost yelps, but bucks up against her, because he's always liked it a little rough, and this is _Gillian_.

His hands are itching to touch her, but no, he's tied nice and tight. She can clearly see the building lust and anger in his eyes, and she laughs, high and delighted and swivels her hips against him. "You're not going anywhere, _love_, so get used to it."

"When did you grow a set of balls?" he asks, trying his best to get some bloody friction through his jeans.

"Since I took yours from Zoe that night in Miami," she purrs, rubbing and grinding and using him for all he's worth. "She never saw it coming."

(They've never been to Miami. Cal wishes he could have taken her there, spent a day on the beach making fun of her trashy romance novels and dunking her in the ocean, but it's never happened. Not in his memories, and that does it, this has to be a dream.)

His head drops back, throat exposed - submission to Gillian, now that's not something he's ever pictured - and groans low in his throat. "Will you slap me if I say I'd like to see you coming?"

She smiles again, shark's-grin and wrong. "You like it when I slap you, Cal. Luckily for you, I fucking missed you, you bastard."

The oh-God-Gillian-just-cursed is drowned out by the profound sense of relief when she unzips his jeans, takes his dick out, and slips out of her knickers. Sinks down on him in one smooth move, and he wants so badly to touch her. Cup her tits, squeeze and roll her nipples between his fingers, map the curve of her spine and leave fingerprint-bruises on her hips. Mark her up.

All he can reach, though, is her neck with his mouth. He trails kisses under her jaw, down her neck, leaving bite marks everywhere he's been. Sucks the skin at the hollow of her collarbone, tastes sweat and expensive perfume. But it's still not enough, because even though she's wet and hot around his dick, he wants more.

"Help us out here, darling. Untie me?"

"No."

"Gill, please, you're killing me here. I want to touch you, taste you."

She unsnaps the buttons of her blouse, sliding her hands underneath her breasts and arching up like an offering. She actually keens when he sucks one nipple into his mouth, flicks his tongue over and around it, learning blind what she likes. Pulls off and moves on to the other one, using his teeth and grinning when she cries out, begs him for _"more, harder, please"_ and her cunt tightens around him.

He should probably be a little more worried that she seems to know exactly how to fuck him: knows he likes it when she sets her own pace that'll get her there and sod what he wants; knows that sharp, angled thrust that'll hit her g-spot every time; knows when to speed up and slow down and that squeezing her cunt around him on an upstroke will make his eyes cross. He just can't be arsed to care when he comes like he's been hit by a Mack truck, and she wails before falling apart around him. There's something wrong, but it's him and Foster, best team in the country.

They'll figure it out.


End file.
